Month: August 2021

I’ve had a wonderful summer, but the giddiness that I felt back in early June has become more measured. The realities of the world have made me more pensive and less worried about my own fun, but more worried about the general state of the world. Let’s face it. Covid cases are on the rise, wildfires are raging around the world, the situation in Afghanistan is as dire as it has ever been, and there is a kind of anger around the world that has changed from simmering frustration to open rage. It would be easy to just close the blinds on my windows and retreat back into the isolation of last year, but I’m determined to find the sunshine and evidence of profound goodness in our world. 

Large numbers of people complained about the Olympic Games this summer. Many were angry with athletes who drew attention to concerns that they had about inequities across the globe. There were those who saw the current generation of champions as snowflakes without the drive and patriotism that once seemed to personify the heroes of the modern games. If I listened to all of the naysaying it would be easy to classify even the recent competitions as just more evidence of the demise of our society. Instead, I viewed the events with a very different eye.

This will go down as an historic event in the annuals of Olympic history. These were the games that might not have been were it not for the careful planning and attention to detail of the city of Tokyo and the committee in charge. It’s doubtful that the games brought the influx in cash that is sometimes the benefit of being a host, but perhaps this year the most important reason for fulfilling the promise of the games was in providing a venue for the athletes from all across the globe with a opportunity to demonstrate their prowess and skills. 

There is a limited moment in time for most athletes. If they lose the opportunities when they are young, there is rarely another moment that will work for them. These young people have worked for years to reach a level of competitive excellence. Taking that away from them would have been tragic. I applaud those who made the games possible and did so with enough precautions to generally protect the representatives in each sport. 

As for those who voiced their political concerns, I think that it is wonderful that they were free to demonstrate our true freedoms versus the young woman who had to defect from her native country for fear that she would be jailed. America is the land of liberty, and protesting is baked into our DNA. It is what our founders did when they had grown weary of the abusive policies of King George. To this very day people with a cause are free to peacefully make their voices heard. How great is that! Patriotism is not just about singing the national anthem or wrapping oneself in a flag. It is about the God given right to speak one’s mind.

This has also been a summer of nurses and doctors who continue in the battle against Covid-19 even as they endure criticism instead of the joyful support of a year ago. They are in the trenches feeling exhausted and frustrated even as they refuse to give up the fight. We should be shouting our support for them instead of insinuating that they have somehow mislead us. The truth is that nobody could have anticipated the mutations of the virus and the large numbers of unvaccinated who have held out even with the gift of free vaccines. Back in the early spring it seemed as though we would have most of the population fully vaccinated by now. In spite of a feeling that this did not have to happen, our medical communities are reporting to work every day and saving lives. We are incredibly lucky to have them.

Our teachers had a very short summer vacation and yet they were excited about returning to what seemed like it would be a somewhat normal school year. Now they are starting with the specter of illness hanging over their heads, an unknown situation that may dash all of their plans without a great deal of consideration toward how to proceed if the virus becomes a plague in their classrooms. Our educators are decorating their rooms, planning their lessons, and doing their best to proceed as if all is well. That’s what teachers do. They leave their emotions and worries in the parking lot and carry on with only thoughts of their students on their minds.

There are good things happening everywhere but far too many of us are focusing on what is wrong rather than what is right. Perhaps if we spent a bit more time showing appreciation for the positive actions of the people around us, we would all be better. Surely there are challenges to be met, but why can’t we also celebrate the fact that lots and lots of people are ignoring the negativity and doing what they have trained to do? The athletes are putting their hearts and souls into competitions. The nurses and doctors are quietly following their oaths to first do no harm. The educators are determined to keep our children learning. Let’s shout for joy that so much effort is being made by so many, and let’s turn off the noise that seems intent on putting them down. It may be a difficult time, but those who would insist that we are in an era of weak and ungrateful people, obviously are not seeing what I am seeing. There are still heroes among us, and they are glorious.

Last week I created a hybrid way of interacting with the world. July had been so free and easy, but August has brought outbreaks of Covid-19 in my area that forced me to rethink my plans for doing all of the things that I had avoided during the long months from March 2020 to May 2021. From May to the end of July I had become more and more inclined to feel as though the worst of our ordeal was over. I put away my masks and only carried a few in purse for use in places that were still requiring the face coverings, like doctors’ offices, some museums in New Mexico, and my hairdresser. I knew full well that not everyone that I encountered had been vaccinated, but I felt reasonably assured that I had protected myself and need not worry about somehow contracting the virus. Life felt really good and normal and fun once again. 

With August came dire warnings and new guidelines. I’ve pulled out the full complement of my masks from the drawers where I had hidden them, and once again automatically don them wherever I go, no questions asked. It’s easy enough to do so, even though I really do not like the feeling of being behind a mask. It’s something that I have had to adapt to doing, and I find myself becoming just a bit more relaxed about the routine with a bit of practice. The good thing so far is that I have not felt the need to become a recluse again like I was in the time before I was fully vaccinated. I’ve been having fun and seeing people albeit in more controlled circumstances than a few weeks ago.

I suppose that in some ways my background has prepared me for being patient and willing to accept changes in my lifestyle without much fuss on my part. I grew up in the hot and humid days before air conditioning, a situation far more uncomfortable than sporting a mask in a cool indoor environment. My mom was on such a strict budget that we mostly found our fun at home, so I’m not someone who feels persecuted if I have to entertain myself in my own backyard. As a child I had to adapt to all sorts of situations that people might have seen as privations, but to me they were just the way things were. As long as I had three meals a day and a bed to sleep in at night, I felt genuinely lucky. 

I suppose that I have viewed my personal experience throughout the pandemic in much the same way. I have missed the total freedom of my prior days, but on the whole life has been extraordinarily good. I have grieved over the loss of friends and acquaintances and worried about the welfare of others, but I have not resented having to adapt to new ways of behaving. I am happy to do my teeny tiny part in helping with the cause. I am more concerned with those who have lost their jobs and are on the brink of losing their homes. I worry about our youth who are most assuredly being impacted by the upheaval in ways that will change them forever. I am proud of those who have been flexible and conscious of the needs of everyone. Surely we are engaged in a worldwide community effort. When I see people working together without complaint I feel great hope for the future.

My husband and I had a wonderful day last week. We might have seen it as a disappointment given that we had to become more precautious again, but I found a sense of joy in knowing that we were not alone in being flexible to meet the current needs. We decided to spend the day getting out of the house. We began by enjoying fish tacos at one of our favorite haunts. We wore our masks upon entering and ordered our food from behind the cloth. We chose a table far from other patrons and felt relaxed and safe, and also good that we were not endangering anyone else in the event that we might somehow have contracted the virus. 

We followed our lunch with a leisurely stroll through a local plant nursery. It was quite lovely to walk among the flowers and to see the butterflies and bees bustling happily from one bud to another. We followed up with a visit with my father-in-law and mother-in-law, a treat that has grown more important in the past many months. They are both in their nineties, and even though most people might think of us as old people we are their children and they have begun to rely more and more on us for their care. It makes the precautions that we take to stay well ever more important. 

We ended our day browsing some of the stores in Highland Village, a shopping area that we have always enjoyed. Since we have been watching master class cooking programs we purchased a couple of tools for our culinary adventures that we did not yet have. Then we visited a lovely market where we bought fresh produce and baked bread. Nobody in any of the stores was spoiling for a fight about wearing masks. They sported their cloths of many colors and designs not so much resignedly but with the kind of twinkles in their eyes that serve as today’s smiles. It felt good to be among groups of people so universally adhering to common sense procedures without any fanfare or anger. 

The whole world is exhausted. We want normalcy more than anything, but perhaps we simply need to accept a new way of behaving until some wonderful future time when the danger of spreading the virus has passed. We can have fun, but maybe not exactly the way we always have. Change is inevitable under any circumstances. Those who learn to adjust become the fittest who survive. I understood that lesson as a child and it has always served me well. I’m determined to be nimble and optimistic. Doing nothing but grumbling has never worked and never will. 

The people who cross our paths in life all contribute to the process of making us who we are. Each interaction with another person changes us in ways both small and large. Sometimes we don’t realize the impact of another until years after an encounter. We often think back and realize how important a single comment or shared experience actually was. The intersection of different people at different times in our journey seems random, but sometimes its purposefulness becomes crystal clear. 

I met Glenda back at the dawn of the twenty first century. She was relatively new to the teaching profession but as the Peer Facilitator for the faculty members I realized that she had a natural ability to connect with people that made her an instant hit with the students that she taught. She understood that forming relationships was as important as delivering instruction. The two skills went hand in hand and she was masterful in that regard. 

Glenda and I mostly kept our interactions on a professional level. I knew that she had made a career change after working in the private sector for some time, but I never really asked what had prompted her to do so. I sensed that she was a woman of faith because of a cross that she wore around her neck, and I saw that she was kind and compassionate with both students and her teaching colleagues. I liked her and believed that she would become an extraordinary educator with the tiniest bit of polishing of her skills. 

My daughter had been unsuccessfully attempting to have children for several years. She endured miscarriages and health problems that only exacerbated her fears that she would always remain childless, but with the help of an exceptional doctor in Chicago she eventually became pregnant with twins. Nonetheless her state of pregnancy was precarious, and the doctor very honestly admitted that given her history she may or may not successfully carry those babies to term. 

She was exceedingly careful as the weeks and then the months went by. It appeared that this might be the one time that she would be able to carry her babies to term. She breathed a small sigh of relief as the gestation period inched forward. Then one day she went into labor far too early. Her children’s lungs were not yet well developed enough. If they were born so soon there would surely be complications too grim to even consider. The doctors made one futile attempt after another to stop her labor, but nothing was working. They only managed to forestall what seemed to be the inevitable just long enough to provide a procedure that might protect the babies’ lungs. Nonetheless they were honest that the little ones might have problems with their sight or even their brains. There was little that anyone could do. Birth would probably occur within hours. 

My son-in-law had been calling regularly to keep me up to date. I was devastated and worried to a point that I was walking through my work at the school like a zombie. I performed my duties automatically, but was in a terrifying fog. As I was strolling through the hallway during a passing period Glenda noticed my countenance and saw that I was behaving uncharacteristically. She sweetly asked if something was wrong. I took her concern as an invitation to unload all of my sorrows with a quavering voice that revealed how broken I was actually feeling. 

Glenda remained calm and told me that she was going to a Bible study at her church that evening. She assured me that she and her group would pray for my daughter and her babies after they had completed their studies. She wanted to know my daughter’s name and what the children would be called. She told me that the prayer session would begin about eight o’clock and assured me that everyone was going to be okay. 

I had nothing else on which to cling at that moment so her words gave me a small measure of comfort and I sleep walked through the rest of the day wondering when my son-in-law would call again with news that seemed to grow more dire with each passing hour. 

At about seven in the evening I received the call that I had not wanted to hear. My son-in-law announced that the doctors believed that the babies would be born within the next couple of hours and that saving them would be a long and difficult task. I resigned myself to the possibility that even after so much hopefulness my daughter might once again lose her children or have little ones with severe birth defects that would affect them for the rest of their lives. 

As I waited for word, I prayed and prayed. Then came the ringing of the phone at around nine o’clock and my heart was beating so fast that I felt as though I was going to collapse. It was my son-in-law with the latest news. My daughter’s labor had stopped at about eight fifteen and there was great hope that it would remain that way. The doctors had no explanation for what had happened, but were relieved that at least for a time a tragedy had been averted. 

My daughter spent weeks and then more weeks both in the hospital and confined to bed all in an effort to keep her babies growing enough to be able to enter the world safely. It was a trying time for her and her husband but they grew more optimistic with each passing day. Eventually the twins were born, still premature and quite tiny, but essentially okay. Their lungs were fully formed and operational. They were not blind. Their brains were fine. Both of them had a few problems, but they were things that the doctors could manage. 

I moved from the school where I had been working not long after the twins were born. I did not see Glenda again, but I often thought of her with such gratitude because I truly believed that her prayers had been the miracle that pulled those babies through. I never got to tell her how I felt until just last week when she suddenly appeared back in my life after almost seventeen years. She wanted to get together for lunch because she felt that it was more important than ever to connect with the people who impacted her life. Once again she seemed to be like a guardian angel watching over me just when I needed her because I was dealing with great pain and worrying what was causing it. Being with her would calm me once again.

We met at a little restaurant and sat away from everyone in a corner booth. We spoke of the ensuing years since we had seen each other. We felt as comfortable as sisters as we talked for over five hours just to catch up. Best of all I got to thank her for the miracle that I will always believe she helped to create. Those twins are entering their senior year of high school. They are beautiful and brilliant and kind. The world will be all the better for having them and I will always believe that Glenda was the angel they needed to stay healthy and alive all those years ago. We don’t always understand how miracles happen, but sometimes they do.

I’m generally what’s known as a “tough old bird.” My doctors have often marveled at my ability to handle even the most intense pain. I suppose that can be a good thing or a definite flaw. Both of my grandmothers were like me, or rather I am like they were. One almost died because she carried on as usual with a ruptured appendix until the infection in her body sent her uncharacteristically to bed. The other grandmother ignored the symptoms of her cancer until the tumors had overwhelmed her body. Like them, I don’t like to complain about any aches or pains or strange symptoms I may have, so when my right arm began to hurt about a month ago I did my best to simply ignore the pain that seemed to increase just a bit more with each passing day. I had convinced myself that it was no big deal.

We were on a glorious vacation when the twinges first began, and there was no way that I was going to interrupt our joy by even mentioning my arm. During the daytime hours I was able to put the pain out of my thoughts, but at night I was tossing and turning while a worrisome throbbing kept me from enjoying my usual slumbers. I convinced myself to just deal with my situation in the hopes that upon my return to my more comfortable bed all would soon be well. I soldiered through without mentioning a word just as I usually do in such circumstances.

Our homecoming was filled with a flurry of activity. We had mountains of laundry, scheduled appointments, so many things that required our full attention. The daylight hours continued to keep my mind from becoming too obsessed with the pain that was gnawing at me twenty four seven. I began to think of people with chronic pain disorders and felt a sense of kinship with them that I had never before realized. 

My nights were horrific. In the dark I wanted nothing more than just to be able to sleep. I was exhausted and yet my body was screaming at me. No matter how I breathed or turned or meditated I was unable to find a comfortable spot that would allow me to doze for more than twenty or thirty minutes at a time. I began to retire for bed as late as possible and arise while it was still dark outside. One night I even quietly left my bed and snuck to another room so as not to disturb my snoring husband. I cried like a baby, something that I had never before done, even after major surgeries and broken bones. I was mostly exhausted and grouchy and feeling hopelessly depressed. 

I knew it was time to contact my doctor even though I worried that I was just being silly and that he would think I was a neurotic hypochondriac. I wanted to be strong, but I felt so weak and surrendering was not my style. Nonetheless, I had to find a way to rid myself of the pain that would not release me. I became a grumpy growling bear in order to push through the delays for getting some kind of medical care. 

It took a week to get the answers I needed and in the meantime some wonderful friends unknowingly kept me sane by spending hours talking with me and no doubt wondering what had brought on my almost manic chattiness. Even I was worried that after dodging the mental illness gene from my mother and grandmother for decades, perhaps my days of being centered and sane had finally passed. I would look in the mirror and wonder how I had become this way. My moodiness and tendency to dissolve in tears was all so new to me. 

Last Friday I finally saw a doctor and his team. They were fabulous. They assured me that my pain was real and had been caused by a torn rotator cuff. They were kind, understanding, willing to take a great deal of time to listen to me even as I told them how I had worried that I was losing my mind. 

I got an injection of cortisone in my shoulder. The next day I began taking Methylprednisolone. I  swallowed the last pill from that pack this morning. Tomorrow I will begin to rely on anti-inflammatory medications for the pain that has already subsided significantly. I have an appointment with a physical therapist and a follow up appointment with the doctor. Even though the pain is not completely gone it has lessened enough to allow me to sleep. I’ve felt like a teenager as I’ve slumbered in nine to ten hour shifts. My calmness and and sense of strength has already returned. It feels good just to be able to accomplish a normal thing like just being the me that I have always been. 

I feel more understanding after my ordeal. I have thought of myself as a woman of steel. I often wondered about people who seemed unable to pull themselves through difficult times without falling apart. I prided myself in being logical and unwilling to surrender to emotional outbursts, and yet a bit more pain than I had ever before experienced pushed me right over the edge, even though I hid my reality from most of the people I encountered. 

Sometimes the most courageous thing that we might do is to admit that we are hurting and in trouble. Allowing our pain and concerns to fester until we are on the brink of a mental crisis is a very dangerous way to be. I knew that to be true because of my years of caring for my mentally ill mother, and yet I fell into a trap of self deception and hid my fears. It was only the grinding physical agony I was feeling that pushed me to humble myself by asking for help. 

It would behoove each of us to embrace both our strengths and our weaknesses with honesty. The beauty of our bodies and minds is that they both send signals to our brains when we must seek help. There is nobody on this earth who does not at one time or another have to surrender and admit to being less than perfect. 

I’m better now and feeling exactly like the person I have always been, but I know that I have somehow changed. I’m going to feel a bit more compassion for anyone who is beaten down by either physical or mental pain. I will be more inclined in the future to be honest about my own feelings as well. There are good people just waiting to help us when we are in need. Being really tough means that we are not too proud to accept their aide. 

As an English major I had to write many papers when I was in college. I became rather adept at researching a topic and whipping out essays at warp speed. In between all of the reading I had to do and the many tests I had to take, I could ill afford to fall behind in creating written works worthy of presenting to my professors. Sadly the time ultimately came when I experienced a frightening case of writer’s block. I had a number of assignments coming due, and for some reason I was unable to even create an opening sentence much less an entire paper. It was a terrifying experience as the days went by and I still found no inspiration despite Herculean efforts to overcome my mental block. 

I remember sitting at a table just staring at the keys on my computer and becoming more and more terrified of something that had always been natural for me. I worried that I would have to miss a deadline for the first time in my life if I was unable to ease the anxiety that had built to a boiling point in my brain. Thus I began a series of activities designed to relax and unlock the encapsulation of my thoughts. 

I took a nap. I watched some inane television. I laughed at corny jokes from my husband. I went out shopping just for fun. Each time I would return to the task of writing my essay it was as though I had somehow become brainless. Nothing whatsoever flowed from my mind. 

I thought of F. Scott Fitzgerald and how he had created one of the greatest works of all time, only to struggle later to find the words he needed for another masterpiece. The mental anguish that he endured lead him to heavy drinking and a dark depression that overcame his creative instincts. I’m hardly in the same wheelhouse as Fitzgerald, but somehow I understood his dilemma in that moment because words had always come to me so easily, and now it was as though I had become mute. 

As I sat feeling overwhelmed my husband brought me a cold beer. I looked at him incredulously because I have never in my life been a beer drinker. There is nothing about that brew that is tantalizing to me. I’m more of a wine person, but beer is what we had on hand, so beer is what I got. I argued that if I drank the beer I would get drowsy and need to sleep just at the time when I had to get the work done one way or another. My husband insisted that I needed to relax and so he popped the top on a beer for himself as well, and we sat sipping our drinks and talking about anything that came to our minds. Somehow just forgetting my issues for a moment felt so good, and I soon found myself smiling and laughing and putting things into perspective. 

I realized that I did not have to create the best essay ever. All I needed was to fulfill the requirement one way or another. I set to work just putting random thought about the topic into enough words and paragraphs to earn an average grade based on the professor’s rubric. I knew that it wasn’t the best thing I had ever written, but I went to sleep that night knowing that it was okay just to be ordinary now and again. I slumbered like a baby for the first time in days.

The irony is that my teacher actually raved about my paper to the entire class. I received a perfect grade on the piece and the adulation of my peers. I never told anyone that I had thought of it as a mishmash of unrelated ideas that made little sense. I had thrown it together like a pot of soup made from leftovers, but somehow it turned out to be delicious. 

I try to write a weekday blog with great regularity. There are times when I find myself feelings as though I have nothing of worth to say. Sometimes I punt and somehow kick my ideas over the goal post. I never really know what will impress my readers and what will not. In fact, I’m not so sure who my readers are, or even if I have any. I may be like some unknown soul playing the cello fairly well for no one but himself. Writing is something I do because it brings me great joy. it is fun for me and a kind of selfish pleasure. 

I suspect that people enjoy my descriptions of people that I have known. I’m also fairly certain that they do not like my blogs that become a bit political or preachy. Editorials tend to always turn off some of the readers no matter what the content, so writing them is rather risky. I’d do better to stay less controversial and just stick with pleasantries, but writing is something I do to challenge myself, just as an athlete pushes the envelope of endurance. 

If you haven’t guessed, today was one of those times when I seemed to be low on ideas. I suppose we all get that way in whatever we are attempting to do. I cried tears of happiness this morning for Simone Biles because she got back on that balance beam and began her journey of excellence once again. It wasn’t her all time best performance, but the smile on her face as she received a bronze medal told me how relieved she was that some of her fears were fading away. She is a courageous woman who has been unafraid to admit to the anxieties that overcame her. We all owe her a round of applause for showing us how to embrace our human frailties. Such moments come to even us ordinary souls, and it really is okay.